


in the absence of everything, i promise to keep you warm

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Azgeda, Clarke, Clexa, F/F, Ice Nation - Freeform, clarke and lexa - Freeform, lexa and clarke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6056749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-modern AU. </p><p>Clarke is a warrior raised by the Ice Nation. Beitris, Queen Nia's twin sister, raised Clarke as her own after her squadron murdered Clarke's mother during an invasion when Clarke was a mere infant. Clarke grows up believing she was abandoned by the Trikru and struggles to find her place in the Ice Nation. Queen Nia gives Clarke her chance to become true Azgeda by sending her on a mission: </p><p>Infiltrate the Trikru by posing as one of their own. Get to know their warriors. Learn their tactics inside out. </p><p>Only then will Azgeda see the downfall of Lexa and her clan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I'm back to being thirsty for this goddamned TV show after being caught up on season 3. A few of you might know me as the author of Stay Where It Is Perfect - a fic that I just cannot seem to figure out an ending for. While I work on this, I'll be trying to figure out a way to finish my other fic. For now, I hope you enjoy this one. I started plotting it out directly after season 2 ended, and then season 3 gave me 15124x more material to work with in re: the Ice Nation & the various characters.
> 
> Enjoy! Pls leave feedback / kudos if you want to xoxo
> 
> PS - before you read, to clear up any potential initial confusion - Maren is Clarke's Trikru-given name before Azgeda names her Clarke.

 

The girl is born and the Trikru elders croon when they see her eyes. They speak of how they are similar to her father’s, but brighter; how they remind them of the blue that their own elders once spoke of when they told stories of how the _ocean_ once looked.

 

Jacob holds the baby in his arms, prideful. “Her eyes are fiercer than mine,” he proclaims, “She will be a stronger fighter than I when she grows.”

 

The elders tell everyone to look at this child’s eyes when the people come to give their customary congratulations.

 

They retell the stories of their elders and the ocean. They name her _Maren Kom Trikru. Maren_ , they say, like the word _Mare,_ once the word for _sea._

 

She is one summer old when her father dies – a vicious attack during the hunt to prepare for winter. The survivors are either too wounded or too traumatized to be able to say much.

 

Something about a gargantuan animal. A humanoid animal. An animal with death in its eyes.

 

They call it _Pauna._ Trikru stands vigil for Jacob for two nights. They continue the hunt soon after.

 

She is nearly two summers old when Alexandria - Lexa - is introduced to her – Maren cannot quite form complete sentences yet. Lexa is four summers old and her eyes are bright green.

 

They touch each other’s faces, mothers amused at their undying curiosity of each other, and they begin to play with the handcrafted dolls that the elders created for the young. They pay no more mind to each other.

 

She is three summers old when Lexa’s mother dies, too weak to survive the harsh winters in TonDC. Three summers old when Lexa’s father dies in the same way her own died – at the hands of _Pauna._

At six summers, Lexa is found to be a Nightblood and taken in by Anya, a young warrior, as her second.

 

In wonder and awe, Maren watches the Nightbloods train, but when an archery session goes wrong and a Nightblood, Bellamy, misses his target, his arrow buries itself into Maren’s shoulder, nearly killing her.

 

The whole village speaks of the incident and joke about how Maren already has a scar for a kill mark on her shoulder for when she eventually takes her revenge on Bellamy.

 

Maren is four summers old when her mother scoops her in her arms one night as the Azgeda ambush their camp. Her mother runs no further than a mile before five Azgeda soldiers catch up to them.

 

She is four summers old when her mother is shot down with bows and arrows, beaten down by their enemies, Maren taken from her lifeless arms. One of the soldiers suggests cutting the child’s throat. Another suggests using her as bait to capture and kill more of the Trikru.

 

Another, the kindest of the squadron, one who has just lost her own young one in the winter’s grasp, says she can take the child in as her own.

 

The child’s eyes remind her much of her dead young, fire and ice already blazing through thick eyelashes. Three of the others begrudgingly allow it. Marius shakes his head.

 

“Nia would not approve of it,” he grunts. “Look at this child. Hardly any meat on her bones. Our clan has been struggling to feed ourselves enough as it is. We cannot afford the extra food – especially not for one of the _Trikru._ ”

 

He spits the last word as if it is a curse.

 

“Nia is my sister,” Beitris responds, wrapping the child in one of her furs as she cries, “She will understand. This child is too young to remember her life with the Trikru. Have humanity, Marius.”

 

“We failed our mission. The leader of Trikru still lives,” Roan says. “Nia will be unhappy with this.”

 

“It is not the fault of this child that our army was not fast enough to get to their leader,” Beitris protests. “She is still innocent, and she shows promise.”

 

Marius says nothing as he stalks off in the snow, shaking his head, as the rest follow. Beitris lifts the crying child up in her arms, cooing at her, tightening the furs wrapped around her for warmth.

 

Beitris brings the child to Nia, breath bated.

 

Nia and Beitris, twin sisters, are not particularly close, but they hold a great deal of mutual respect for each other – their mother raised them that way.

 

When Nia was called to be the next leader of the Azgeda, Beitris showed no envy, no hatred towards her sister. Beitris bowed down to her as the rest of her people did, accepted the role of Advisor to the Queen.

 

“This winter is particularly harsh, Beitris,” Nia says from the throne room, the rest of their people outside and nursing their wounds from the battle. The child sleeps on a pile of furs in the corner. “Another mouth to feed, especially one of a growing warrior, is something that we cannot easily afford.”

 

“So you suggest we slaughter a child?”

 

Nia settles into her throne, leaning back against it, observing her twin sister. “What more can we do? She is one of the Trikru. They have been responsible for the countless deaths of our own.”

 

Beitris is careful not to raise her voice, careful to not wake the sleeping child.

 

“When our mother gave birth to us, no one expected there to be two. She gave birth to us during one of the hardest winters our people have experienced.” Beitris points to the child.

 

“They debated exactly what we are debating here – ending one of our lives to better the life of the other.”

 

Nia simply stares at her sister.

 

Beitris continues. “Would you have wanted me to die, so you could be fed more to survive the winter?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Then let me raise this child as my own. Ever since I lost Vana, my life has felt empty. Without purpose. Let me become a mother again, Nia. Give this to me.”

 

Nia sits there for a little longer, eyes slightly narrowed in contemplation, before she rises to sit by the sleeping child.

 

The two stand in silence, the commotion of the returning warriors the only noise they can hear. Beitris holds her breath, ready to jump between her sister and this child at the slightest sign of peril.

 

But then Nia places a hand on the child’s blonde head.

 

“Her name shall be _Clarke._ ” Nia lifts her head to meet her sister’s eyes. “My niece.” She looks at Beitris. “Your daughter. My son, Roan, is to be her first when she comes of age. We will tell our people to treat her as one of our own. Anyone who defies that will answer to me.”

 

Beitris nods, giving her sister a thankful smile.

 

“ _Clarke Kom Azgeda_ ,” Nia murmurs as the child is stirred awake, bright eyes staring at her in curiosity. “She reminds me of Vana.”

 

“Thank you, Nia,” Beitris says, settling down beside her. “Thank you.”

 

-

 

Clarke is ten summers old when she is old enough to realize that her people don’t quite treat her like they treat the other young ones. Their smiles are not as full, their words are not as kind, and their eyes are always wary.

 

She finds herself looking at the glass mirror in her and her mother’s tent, wondering if she perhaps has too big of a nose, wondering how she got the scar on both sides of her left shoulder. Clarke wonders about everything.

 

She goes to her mother after a particularly awkward encounter with the other children.

 

“Why do people not like me, mother?” Clarke says, watching Beitris sew a blanket together. “They treat me differently.”

 

Beitris knew that this question has been a long time coming, and contemplates lying to her adopted daughter, but she cannot form a logical lie that would placate her.

 

She sits Clarke down.

 

“It is not that they do not like you, Clarke,” she says gently. “It is that you are different from them.”

 

Clarke scrunches her nose in confusion. “How do you mean?”

 

Beitris shakes her head. She cannot lie about Clarke’s birthplace, but she can lie to make things a little better for her.

 

“You are not born to the Azgeda, my young one.”

 

“What? That can’t be.”

 

“Your mother –“ Beitris pauses. _Perhaps a small lie would help._ “Your mother abandoned you. When you were no older than three summers.”

 

Clarke furrows a brow, giving Beitris a look of question that Beitris has come to know and love in her child.

 

“I am still your mother,” Beitris says reassuringly, “But not by blood. I am the one who saved you. Had I not found you, you would not be here. You would be long gone, stolen by winter’s cold.”

 

“What kind of mother abandons their child?” Clarke says, indignant.

 

“Not one who ever deserves to have you as her daughter. Trikru know not of what true loyalty means.”

 

Clarke _hates_ the Trikru. She hates her birth mother for abandoning her.

 

She runs outside with her tiny sword, attacking a post until blisters form and burst on her palms.

 

-

 

Clarke is fourteen summers old when her training with Roan is interrupted by the sound of a horn blasting through the plains.

 

The leader of the Trikru is dead, Nia announces to her people. Their recent ambush was successful. Without leadership, Trikru is sure to fall.

 

-

 

They don’t. Less than a week later, it is found that one named _Lexa_   has been spiritually chosen to be the next leader, believed to be the reincarnation of the deceased Ragna. She is young, they say, but she is already proving to be wiser and shrewder than her predecessor.  _Revolutionary,_ they call her. Talks of coalitions and alliances emerge, but Nia has none of it.

 

She begins to plan for their next invasion. Trikru _will_ meet their demise.

 

-

 

Clarke is sixteen summers old when they capture one named _Costia._ They keep her in the dungeons, a dark cave guarded by three Azgeda warriors day and night.

 

“Why her?” Clarke asks Beitris as guards pull her through camp. “She doesn’t look like a warrior.”

 

“She is one of the Trikru healers.”

 

“A healer?” Clarke continues to watch the girl being dragged through the dirt. “Why a healer? What has she done?”

 

“It is said that she is the lover of the leader,” Beitris murmurs, “Nia tells me that she knows the secrets of the Trikru leader. She is crucial.” Beitris turns to Clarke. “It is said that she is responsible for the death of thirteen of our warriors.”

 

Clarke watches as the girl is thrown into the chamber, yelping in pain.

 

 _Killers and deserters_ , she thinks bitterly.

 

She finds herself glad to have been abandoned.

 

-

 

It has almost been a moon, and the one they call Costia has not revealed anything to her interrogators. Clarke is sent to give water to the prisoner.

 

“I don’t want to do it,” she protests, “I don’t want to go near her. What if she attacks me?”

 

“Are you telling me that you’re afraid of a healer?” Roan sneers, shoving the water jug into Clarke’s hands.

 

“No.” Clarke squares her shoulders.

 

“Then _go_.”

 

The soldiers standing post nod to acknowledge her – but before she goes in, Konrad, the younger one, holds a hand out to stop Clarke as she enters.

 

“Wait,” he says, gruffly. He reaches over to his side to pull out a small dagger hanging at his waist. “Take this.”

 

Clarke holds out a free hand, feeling the weight of the dagger press against it. She has always liked and admired Konrad – she may be Roan’ second, but Konrad has always taught her lessons far beyond swords and hunting.

 

She nods her thanks, determinedly walking into the dungeons.

 

The cave is pitch black. They do not leave torches for the prisoners for light. When Clarke opens the gate to the dungeon, light pours in, and she sees Costia’s figure lying in a small pile of hay.

 

Costia lifts her head, squinting at the sudden light, and Clarke’s grip on her dagger tightens. The girl sits up, rubbing her eyes.

 

“Hello.”

 

Clarke says nothing – she merely stands there, dagger in one hand, water jug in the other. She stares at the girl – _Costia –_ and can’t help but think of how similar in age they seem.

 

_What have you done to be here?_

 

Costia does not move as Clarke lowers the jug of water to the ground, pushing it towards the other girl with her foot.

 

Costia nods. “Thank you.”

 

She merely stares at Clarke, still not moving, and it is _unnerving._

 

Clarke says nothing. She keeps a firm grip on Konrad’s dagger and backs away, facing Costia for a few more steps before turning, quickly pacing out the cave.

 

-

 

Costia gives them nothing.

 

And Nia calls for her death.

 

Clarke is not there when Costia is strung up on a post – she is training with Roan, who trains her much, _much_ harder than he usually does. They can hear Costia screaming from the village square.

 

Roan does not unclench his teeth the entire time. She dodges his blows by millimeters, making moves when she can, and he calls off their practice by roughly pushing her to the ground.

 

Clarke quickly sits up, panting.

 

“What did I do?” she says, throwing her sword down in the dirt beside her.

 

Roan says nothing. He turns his back to Clarke, towards the source of the screaming, and the two stand there in silence until the screams stop.

 

Clarke swears that she can hear him murmur something that sounds similar to

' _A child. It shouldn’t have to be this way.'_

before whirling back and snarling at her to get back into position.

 

-

 

To everyone’s surprise, Lexa does not retaliate to Costia’s death - not even when the Queen delivers Costia's head to Lexa in a wooden box. The Queen grows impatient, waiting for Lexa to give Azgeda the chance to strike, to show her weakness, but Lexa, much like her former lover, gives Nia nothing.

 

-

 

Roan thinks it is miraculous that Clarke has made it to eighteen summers, but he can’t hide the pride in his eyes when Clarke becomes a part of the Queen’s honorary nightguard. Beitris hands Clarke her sword during the ceremony, attempting to remain stoic, but gives her daughter a wink before she passes to the next.

 

The morning after her first post, she is called to Queen Nia’s quarters.

 

“She’s either going to kill you or assign you to something that will probably kill you,” Roan says, giving Clarke his familiar malevolent grin. "Either way, you're probably dead."

 

“Whatever you say, mother’s boy,” Clarke shoots back, throwing a twig that she had been fiddling with directly at his face.

 

Clarke enters Nia’s tent, swallowing her anxieties about having a private conversation with the Queen herself. Nia sits on her throne, two guards posted at either side.

 

“You asked for me?”

 

The Queen smiles at Clarke.

 

“Give us the room,” she orders the guards. They march outside. Queen Nia leans back in her throne.

 

“My son tells me you are one of the most promising soldiers he has seen in Azgeda thus far,” she says.

 

Clarke raises her eyebrows in surprise.

 

“Pay no mind to his boarish ways,” Nia says, waving a hand in dismissal of Clarke’s shock. “He does not tell these things to you because he is embarrassed that a child has beaten him, multiple times, in hand-to-hand combat. I am embarrassed on his behalf.”

 

Clarke looks down for a moment, awkwardly contemplating what to say in response, wondering why Nia so openly resents her own son, but Nia continues to speak, filling the silence.

 

“Beitris tells me you know of your origins. Where you were born.”

 

Clarke’s eyes snap up. She nods. “I do, but my loyalties will _always_ lie with Azgeda. I would never –“

 

The Queen raises her hand. Clarke closes her mouth.

 

Nia stands, striding slowly towards Clarke until she is looming in front of the girl.

 

“I’ve seen your struggles, child,” she says, looking down at Clarke. “It pains me to see the daughter of my sister treated as if she is not one of my own by her own people.”

 

Clarke flinches at this. She vividly remembers that the cheers for her were far quieter than for the others when she was named as part of the Queen’s Nightguard – but hearing the Queen acknowledge this shames Clarke. She bows her head.

 

The Queen tilts her head, studying Clarke for a moment. “How would you like a chance to prove your loyalty to all of Azgeda?”

 

Clarke swallows, looks Nia in the eye with a steely glance.

 

“Tell me what I can do,” she says steadily, “And I’ll do it.”

 

-

 

Nia has Clarke dressed in rags and wielding nothing but a dull dagger. Clarke is to stumble into the Trikru village, injured, claiming to be one of their own – a nomad, abandoned by her mother long ago, back when Ragna was still alive and the leader of their clan. Clarke is to tell them she was attacked by Azgeda troops.

 

“Get to know their people,” Nia says. “Their secrets. Their weaknesses. I will send Roan to the treeline to meet with you the night after every full moon to receive your reports.”

 

“Why can’t I just get close enough to kill the leader?” Clarke queries.

 

“Simply killing the leader will not do. We learned that with Ragna, the previous leader – Trikru manages to find a way back every time. We must know Trikru inside and out if we want to be rid of them completely.”

 

“They’ll know I’m faking the injuries soon enough,” Clarke says. “How am I to convince them?”

 

Nia looks at Clarke once, then at the two soldiers flanking her, and nods at them.

 

Clarke is on the ground in moments, punched and kicked by the two soldiers until she nearly faints. She does not fight back.

 

Nia gives them the order to stop after what feels like hours, and she crouches beside Clarke’s crumpled body.

 

“For Azgeda,” she says, touching her fingers to Clarke’s forehead.

 

Clarke takes a shaky breath, steeling herself as she sits up, not allowing herself to show any weakness.

 

She grits her teeth and nods.

 

-

 

Beitris is one of the few to say farewell to Clarke. She kisses Clarke’s forehead, gives her a beaded bracelet to wear as a token of her love.

 

“I’m sorry I cannot heal your wounds.”

 

Clarke has a black eye, scrapes all over her face and body, and her left wrist is swollen. She wonders if it is broken.

 

“It’s okay,” Clarke says back, giving her mother a weak smile.

 

“You will come back as a hero to your people,” Beitris murmurs, gently touching her forehead to Clarke’s. “But know that I have always seen the greatness in you. Regardless of what happens.”

 

-

 

Roan is the last to say goodbye to Clarke, but Clarke would hardly call his goodbye a goodbye.

 

“You’re being foolish,” he mutters, walking her to the treeline. “You’re playing into her game.”

 

“What game?” Clarke says, limping alongside her former first.

 

“The Queen doesn’t care about whether you feel like you fit in or not,” Roan says bluntly. “She doesn’t care about you. She’s only sending you in because she sees an opportunity for herself. She does not see an opportunity in _you_. The only reason she allowed Beitris to take you in in the first place was to groom you for _exactly_ this.”

 

Clarke shakes her head. “She is my mother’s sister –“

 

“Don't you get it? Nia doesn't care about you. And Beitris is _not_ your mother,” Roan snarls. Clarke stops in her tracks.

 

“I can make my own way from here,” she says stiffly.

 

“Don’t do this, Clarke,” Roan says. “Don’t play into her game. I trained you for better things than to be one of her pawns.”

 

“I can’t turn back now.”

 

She can see Roan’s jaw flex as he grinds his teeth.

 

“Try not to die within the week,” he mutters, turning and walking away without looking back once.

 

Clarke watches him walk away for a few moments, feeling the crushing weight of loneliness begin to overtake her before inhaling deeply and hobbling towards the Trikru village.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know, it's been forever since i updated - life got in the way, and then 3x07 happened and i lost all faith and motivation for ever continuing anything related to the 100 again. i never wanted to even think about the tv show after the episode happened, but then i realized that, in a way, lexa is still alive - not canonically, in this garbage mess of a tv show, but in the things that we write and the drawings we create. i hope no one else has lost faith in her legacy in the same way i almost did - remember that she is immortal in the sense that her and her legacy won't ever be forgotten, in the sense that there will always be new fanfics and fanart and beautiful headcanons being crafted in which she is alive and well and as beautiful and strong as ever. i like to think of her death as a way of her character being truly passed on to us, now -- it's our responsibility to keep her alive. lexa deserved better, and i know that all of us will be able to fulfill that mantra.
> 
> back to the story. 
> 
> i really wanted to craft a clarke x lexa story in which there is little to no initial hostility - we see a much softer side to lexa the minute lexa begins to trust in clarke, and i truly believe that lexa would have been like this to her had they met under different circumstances - circumstances in which lexa has a Big Gay Crush on this grumpy cat of a girl, and they are not (to her knowledge) on opposite sides of an impending war. i wanted to start their story, emotionally speaking, from that point on. 
> 
> also - to be honest, a lot of the plot points that the 100 created in re: the nightbloods all having to die, the AI arc, etc etc, are stupid as shit. in this canon divergent verse, a few things are different -- the coalition has not been formed yet. nightbloods don't have to die in order for one to rise as the leader of the clan. the dumb-as-shit- AI story doesn't exist, or at least, is not even remotely pertinent to this story. 
> 
> reshop, heda. hope you all enjoy the rest of this story.

Clarke is walking - limping - for all of thirty minutes before she is roughly grabbed from behind, knife pressed to her throat. Two figures emerge from the thick bush in front of her, weapons drawn. _Trikru._

 

One of them, a slender-faced, foxlike brunette woman has her sword drawn, one hand empty and ready to reach for the second hanging off of her back.

 

"Disarm her."

 

The man who grabbed her reaches for the dagger at her side, throwing it to the ground in front of them.

 

The brunette speaks again. “Who are you?”

 

Clarke can’t help the grunt of pain when whoever is holding her from behind places pressure on a particularly sore point in her shoulder. She remains silent for a moment, evaluating her situation, second-guessing this entire mission, but then she steels herself and speaks.

 

“My name is Clarke.”

 

The woman narrows her eyes, still waiting for Clarke to elaborate.

 

“Clarke kom Trikru.”

 

“Lies.” The other woman in front of her, dark-skinned with short, black hair growls. “I am one of the village leaders. I have no recollection of ever meeting this one.”

 

“I was abandoned by my mother, many summers ago.”

 

“Trikru do not abandon their own.”

 

 _Who’s the liar, now?_ Clarke thinks resentfully, but she holds her tongue.

 

The shorthaired one looks at the warrior holding Clarke. “Kill her.”

 

“Wait!” she cries out, mustering all she can into her act. “Please. I just want to come back home again.”

 

“Shut your mouth –“

 

The foxlike woman raises her hand. “Indra, stop,” she says to the warrior. Indra whirls to her in disbelief.

 

“Anya, what are you doing?”

 

Anya sheathes her sword. Looks at Clarke. “How old are you?”

 

“Eighteen summers,” Clarke says steadily.

 

Anya turns back to Indra. “I was ten summers old when Azgeda attacked our village. Our healer, Abigail, was taken and killed, but her child was nowhere to be found. She was four summers old.” Anya glances at Clarke. “That was fourteen summers ago. This one looks like her. Her father’s eyes.”

 

Indra shakes her head. Clarke is truly beginning to think that the end of her life may be in this moment.

 

“That was in the middle of winter. There is no possible way that a child could survive that on her own.”

 

“I didn’t survive it on my own,” Clarke lies instantly, a story beginning to rapidly form in her head. “A nomad found me in my mother’s arms. He raised me as his own, but – I never felt like I belonged in the life I was raised in. So I ran away.”

 

Anya stares at Clarke for a moment with a speculative look on her face. After a few beats, still looking at Clarke, she speaks to Indra.

 

“I say we bring her to the elders. They will be able to ascertain whether she is who she says she is.”

 

“This is too easy,” Indra spits, “How do we know she is not Ice Nation? How do we know that she doesn’t have an army, standing by, waiting to attack the minute we let our guard down? ”

 

“She’s not Ice Nation,” Anya speculates, narrowing her eyes as she scans Clarke’s face, “She does not have their marks on her face.”

 

A fact that Clarke is very well aware of. She never had the privilege of going through the ceremonial Azgeda marking ceremony – she did not have that birthright, she thinks bitterly.

 

Anya glances back at Indra. “Besides, we would have detected soldiers. Tracks. There was nothing. If she is who she says she is, this girl is the missing daughter of Jakob kom Trikru. He saved my older brother’s life when his hunting squad first encountered Pauna. I owe him Raphael’s life.”

 

Indra is still glaring at Clarke. “Heda won’t be pleased about this.”

 

“Heda will understand. She was my second – I know her. She will at least listen.” Anya says. She nods to the man holding Clarke. “Let Clarke walk with us. Walk behind her. She makes a move, she dies.”

 

“I’m standing _right_ here,” Clarke retorts.

 

“Shut up, child,” Indra says. She then looks Clarke up and down. “You’re injured. Who did this to you?”

 

“Azgeda,” Clarke mutters. “I was attacked on my way here by one of their soldiers.”

 

“Where? When”

 

“It was a while ago. Not recent. He’s dead, now, anyway.”

 

“And you fought the soldier off?” Indra says, disbelief clear in her voice.

 

“Yes.”

 

With a rough shove, Clarke is released. She falls to her knees for a moment, quickly scrambling up and squaring her shoulders in front of Indra, who merely scoffs.

 

“I cannot wait until Heda deems your pathetic story false and feeds you as bait to Pauna,” she says under her breath, sheathing her sword and beginning to walk. “Be sure to let one of the scouts know that Azgeda may have been within our borders. If any Azgeda are seen, they are to be killed on sight.”

 

 _You’ll be the first to die when I give your village away to the Ice Queen,_ Clarke thinks angrily, beginning to limp along with the squadron.

 

-

 

It’s been a few hours, close to sundown, and Clarke’s feet are starting to bleed a little, and there is no doubt about the fact that her wrist is broken.

 

They enter the village and Clarke observes as much as she can about their patrols – two at each visible post, archers resting in makeshift towers, with one soaring, looming tower in the center of the village, a flame lit at the very top. She is met with hostile eyes as she is walked through.

 

They stop. Indra approaches one of the guards.

 

“Where is Heda?” she asks.

 

“Training with the Nightbloods,” he says gruffly. He nods towards Clarke’s general direction. “Prisoner?”

 

“Might as well be one,” Indra says. “Have the elders settled for the night?”

 

The guard nods. “They are in their quarters.”

 

Without another word, Clarke is roughly shoved through the village again into a rather large tent. She finds herself holding her breath for long periods of time, her heart pounding. She is in the heart of a Trikru village – she could not feel any less safe at this very moment. With a broken wrist, tired body, and sore, bleeding feet, she does not stand a chance against even their weakest soldier.

 

She quickly tries to formulate more stories as they enter the tent in case the elders do not recognize her. Clarke finds even the possibility of being recognized laughable – Trikru do not care enough for their own to remember someone as seemingly unimportant as she. This is sure to not go her way.

 

Clarke thinks of Beitris, of Roan, of Queen Nia – she wonders how each of them will react upon hearing of her death. She wonders if war will be exacted upon her death once the leader of Trikru finds out she was sent to infiltrate them.

 

It will be the most significant thing she will have ever done in her entire lifespan, she thinks desolately.

 

“The minute the elders deem that this is not Jakob’s daughter, we tie her to the nearest post,” Indra says under her breath to Anya.

 

“Don’t be so cruel, Indra,” Anya murmurs back as they bow to the elders. “Hello.”

 

One of the elders speak. “Anya. Indra. I hope you are well.”

 

“I am well,” Anya says.

 

“I am well,” Indra says.

 

Clarke notices the instantaneous change in tone – they have both gone from the snarling warriors she had encountered not too long ago to soft-voiced, respectful women.

 

“What have you brought for us?” the elder says, squinting at Clarke.

 

Clarke feels a rough kick to the back of her legs, and she falls to her knees. She glares up at the elder, who merely raises a brow and continues to stare at her.

 

“We found her, wandering in the forest. She claims to be one of ours,” Indra says, her voice reverting back to a mocking tone. “I’m afraid Anya wanted to disturb your quarters to confirm.”

 

“I apologize,” Anya says. Clarke detects a hint of distaste in her voice. “I –“

 

Suddenly, Clarke hears the tent flaps open again.

 

A new voice sounds to her right. “What is this?”

 

Clarke turns her neck swiftly to her right to look at the source of the voice, wincing at the pain of it.

 

A woman – a girl, not much older than Clarke, stands at the entrance. She has dark, braided hair, structured cheekbones, full lips, and green eyes that swirl with confusion and suspicion, surrounded by dark markings.

 

“Heda.” Indra bows, and Anya nods her head for a moment.

 

“ _You’re_ the leader of Trikru?” Clarke says in disbelief. The woman’s eyes flick to Clarke, narrowing as they make eye contact, before quickly moving back to look at Anya.

 

“Anya, who is this?”

 

“Lexa. I see you’re being nosy, as per usual,” Anya says, smirking. Clarke’s eyes widen at the way she speaks to her leader.

 

“ _Shop of_ , Anya,” Lexa says, moving her gaze back to Clarke. “Senya told me you had a prisoner brought here. I thought I would come see her. Why is she here, and not in the prisoner’s quarters?”

 

“She claims to be one of ours. Indra doesn’t believe it.”

 

Lexa continues staring at Clarke, and Clarke glares defiantly back.

 

Anya continues speaking, this time at the elders.

 

“I believe she may be the daughter of Jakob and Abigail,” she says. “Do any of you recognize her? She went missing fourteen summers ago.”

 

The elder standing in front of Clarke scrutinizes her face for a moment before shaking his head. “I do not.”

 

Clarke’s breath hitches in her throat. She tears her gaze away from Lexa to look around at the elders, all of which are staring at her. All of them slowly begin to shake their head.

 

Clarke can feel Lexa’s gaze boring in to the side of her head.

 

“A waste of time,” Indra mutters. “Take her to the prisoner’s quarters.”

 

She’s grabbed roughly by her presumably broken wrist, and she cries out in pain. “Wait – please – I’m one of you, please –“

 

A voice sounds from one of the elders. “Stop.”

 

The man lets go of her wrist, and she falls back down to her knees.

 

She rises, rather frailly, and limps towards Clarke, kneeling in front of her so they are at eye level. Gently, the elder takes Clarke’s face between both hands, her eyes searching for – _something_ – in Clarke’s.

 

“Her eyes are familiar,” she murmurs, “Certainly very similar to Jakob’s - bright blue. Like the ocean.” The corners of the elder’s eyes crinkle in a smile, looking up at Lexa. “We called his child _Maren_ for it.”

 

“Maren…” another elder rises, kneeling before Clarke and scrutinizing Clarke’s eyes in a similar fashion to the other. “I remember Maren. I remember the nightbloods were training when –“ his eyes light up.

 

“Expose your left shoulder.”

 

Clarke raises an eyebrow.

 

Indra speaks from behind her. “This is nonsense, I –“

 

“Silence, Indra,” Lexa murmurs, circling around to stand behind the elders in front of Clarke. Curiosity still lights her eyes.

 

Slowly, Clarke pushes the fabric of the rags she is wearing down her arm, her bruised left shoulder lit by the candles in the tent. She is suddenly acutely aware of the two scars that are there, one in front, one in the back.

 

“There,” the male elder breathes, running a calloused finger along the scar. “Summers and summers ago. Nachtblidas were practicing archery, and Bellamy’s arrow went astray and into Maren’s shoulder – in this exact spot.”

 

Clarke’s lips part slightly, unaware of this memory.

 

“It’s her?” Anya asks. The elder nods.

 

“I believe it is.”

 

Relief rushes through Clarke, her shoulders relaxing instantly.

 

Indra goes silent, and Lexa raises her chin slightly. The whole tent is quiet, all but for the noises of the villagers bustling about outside.

 

“There is your answer, Indra,” Lexa hums. The elders help each other up, moving back to take their original places. Lexa moves towards Clarke.

 

“Help her up,” she orders Indra and Anya. “Gently. She is hurt.”

 

Anya is immediately at Clarke’s right side, hand hooked under her arm. It takes Indra a few moments to arrive at her left. With a grunt, Clarke is standing again, trying her hardest to not wince from the pain she feels in every imaginable part of her body.

 

Lexa steps toward Clarke, that curious look still ever-present in her green eyes. Clarke holds her chin high, still defiant.

 

They stand there like this, in silence, until Lexa finally speaks.

 

“Welcome home.”

 

-

 

Lexa has a few of her handmaidens and healers tend to Clarke in the tall tower. Clarke is made known that the village she is in is called _Polis._

 

Clarke has herbal poultices placed on her wounds, with a makeshift splint bound to her wrist by fine silk. She is then offered a bath, Trikru’s clothing laid out for her on a bed in a resting room in the tower.

 

She almost forgets why she is here as she feels every muscle relax in the wooden tub filled with hot water, steam rising from its surface.

 

Almost.

 

-

 

She is staring out the open window in the tower in a bedroom when she jumps, hearing someone knock on the door.

 

Tentatively, she limps over, opening it to find the leader of Trikru standing in front of her.

 

“Hello,” she says, confused.

 

“Hello.” Lexa tilts her head to the right. “May I come in?”

 

“I, er – I suppose so.”

 

Clarke steps aside and Lexa takes a few steps into the room, not going too far in, stopping to face Clarke.

 

“I understand that your given name was Maren?”

 

“I – I don’t remember ever having that name. Bei –“ Clarke pauses. “The nomad that raised me – she named me _Clarke._ ”

 

“Okay.” Lexa says, nodding. “I hope your quarters are comfortable, Clarke,” she says, looking around the space before turning back to Clarke. “You will be staying here until you are healed and can stay in your own quarters in the village with the rest of our people – your people.”

 

“They’re comfortable,” Clarke says nervously, suddenly unable to make eye contact with the Trikru leader.

 

Before, this leader had been dressed in armor, hair braided back, eyes dark with what Clarke presumed to be the markings of the Trikru leader – now, she stood in front of Clarke in a soft, black dress, sleeves reaching to the middle of her forearms, hair undone, markings of the leader gone.

 

Clarke wishes that Nia were even half as beautiful as the Trikru’s leader. Maybe then, she would like her better.

 

After a long pause, Lexa speaks again. “I wanted to apologize for the way you were treated before you came to us. I hope you understand that it was only for the sake of our safety – we would never treat our own as Indra and Anya did with you. Tensions between Trikru and the Ice Nation have been rising. We had to play it safe.”

 

Clarke doesn’t respond. Lexa continues to speak, placing both hands behind her back.

 

“I do remember you. The memories are vague, but they are there. I remember Bellamy accidentally shooting you with his arrow. I remember your mother healed me when I was young when I fell ill to the harsh winters.”

 

Clarke still doesn’t know what to say.

 

“I wanted to ask you a question.”

 

Clarke finally gathers herself enough to make eye contact with Lexa again. “Okay.”

 

“I entered the elders’ quarters and you didn’t seem to believe that I could be the leader of our clan. Why is that?”

 

Clarke looks back down at her feet again. _So much for that._ “I don’t know.” She looks up at Lexa. “You just seem – young.”

 

Lexa chuckles slightly. “I suppose I am.”

 

Clarke’s legs and feet are beginning to hurt again, so she sits on one of the seats by her bed. Lexa does not move.

 

“Either way, I thought I would come to apologize for the unnecessary brutality.” Lexa moves towards the bedroom door. “My quarters are one floor above you. You will be well guarded. You’re safe, now. Sleep well, Clarke kom _Trikru._ ”

 

Clarke nods and gives Lexa a tight smile.

 

“Thank you. Sleep well, Heda.”

 

Clarke goes to sleep that night dreaming of a life in which an unfamiliar man and woman call her their daughter. The man has blonde hair and blue eyes, strikingly similar to her own. They hold her, smile at her, tell her they are proud of her. She looks around in the dream to see that she is in the Trikru village – not the Ice Nation’s village.

 

In the dream, she feels at peace.

 

At home.

 

-

 

Clarke wakes up the next morning, limbs stiff in pain and the numbing quality of her poultices wearing off. She remembers her dream from last night and feels disgusted with herself.

 

“This is not home,” she murmurs to herself, toying with the bracelet that Beitris gave her upon her leaving. “This is not home.”

 

She thinks that the more she repeats it to herself, the more she will remember that her birth mother abandoned her. That Trikru abandoned her.

 

At least, that’s how the story goes.

 

-

 

She does not speak with Heda again for a few days.

 

As she wanders around the village, Clarke sees her in passing, fiercely training with the Nightbloods, interacting with the elders, complimenting the children’s makeshift wooden swords.

 

Every so often, Lexa looks up to find Clarke’s gaze and gives her a small, warm smile.

 

Clarke shyly looks away most of the time.

 

She ignores the pangs of guilt she feels when she scopes out the guard posts, acting as if she is merely a curious newcomer, and not currently plotting out ways that the Ice Nation could penetrate their defenses.

 

It would be easy, Clarke thinks. The only reason the Ice Nation hadn’t invaded at this point was because they knew nothing of Trikru’s defenses. They could never get close enough to scope it out for themselves.

 

Heda would be the more difficult target – she is well protected, a strong fighter, from what Clarke has seen in her training. Clarke suddenly feels sick to her stomach. Maybe she ate something today that had gone bad.

 

 _That’s enough plotting for today,_ Clarke thinks, shaking her head.

 

-

 

Clarke, for the most part, is warmly welcomed by Trikru. People begin to say hello to her. Elders running food stands in the market offer her treats and food to help her regain her strength.

 

She makes a new friend, a blacksmith named Raven, after a chance encounter when she accidentally walks into her shop. Raven teases Clarke for her limp, gesturing to her own leg, bound by a strange contraption that she created herself.

 

A battle gone wrong, Raven explains. Something about an arrow in her spine.

 

“My limp is far more graceful than yours,” she says. Clarke agrees.

 

She runs into a Nightblood named Bellamy, the one who presumably shot her in the shoulder with an arrow, and he bashfully apologizes to her for what had happened when they were young.

 

“I think I ruined any chances of being Heda the day that happened,” he jokes. Clarke gives him a smile and forgives him.

 

Clarke is welcomed by Trikru. For the most part.

 

Clarke sees Indra around the village sometimes, and is met with a malicious glare each time.

 

One day, she is hobbling around the village, and she attempts to say hello, but Indra merely bares her teeth.

 

“Don’t think for a _second_ that I believe your story,” she growls at Clarke. “There is nothing honest about you.”

 

Indra keeps Clarke and her true goals in check.

 

-

 

A few nights before the full moon, Clarke is deemed well enough to live in her own quarters, no longer under the watch of one of their healers. Her wrist is beginning to heal, and does not hurt as much anymore.

 

Lexa comes up to Clarke’s temporary quarter in the tower. Clarke’s door is open as she packs the few things she has come to own in her short time in the village.

 

“Feeling well?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe. She holds a sword in its sheath in her left hand.

 

“More or less,” Clarke says, slinging her bag across her shoulder and facing Lexa. “Are you going to miss me sleeping in the floor below you?” she says jokingly.

 

Lexa chuckles. “I won’t miss the snoring.”

 

“I don’t snore.”

 

“My guards beg to differ.”

 

Clarke opens her mouth to protest, but Lexa raises her hand.

 

“Joking,” she says. Clarke softens at this.

 

This is not the cruel, heartless leader that everyone in the Ice Nation claimed she was. The dissonance between the Ice Nation’s view of Heda and the Heda standing in front of her throws Clarke.

 

Lexa raises the sheathed sword, holding it up to Clarke. “I had Raven fashion one for you. For your protection.”

 

“You – oh.” Clarke takes the sword with her left hand, unsheathing it to take a look. “Thank you.”

 

Lexa nods. “Were you ever taught to use one?”

 

Clarke nods. “By the one who raised me. She taught me well.”

 

After a moment of silence, a guard calls for Lexa. Lexa clears her throat. “I’d like to hear about her, sometime.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Lexa gives Clarke another one of her small smiles and nods, and turns to walk to the guard who called her name.

 

Clarke sheathes her new sword, watching Lexa walk away. She feels warmed by the encounter.

 

-

 

The day of the full moon, Clarke draws up her vague understanding of the village’s defense system in her head. The sun is beginning to set, so she packs water and some food in her sack, tying her sword to her waist.

 

As she begins to set off, she hears uneven footsteps come from behind. Raven.

 

“Where are you going?” Raven says, walking along beside Clarke.

 

“A walk,” Clarke lies. “I’d like to see the area now that I can actually do so.”

 

“I see you’ve got protection,” Raven says, smirking and nodding to the sword at Clarke’s side.

 

“Yes. Thank you for this. It’s very nice. Light.”

 

“You’re welcome. I can’t believe Lexa already me to make a sword for you,” Raven says, a teasing tone in her voice. “I think she’s taken a liking to you.”

 

Clarke stops in her tracks for a split second before continuing. “A liking?”

 

“Lexa, fierce warrior and leader of a huge clan, the one who everyone reveres and fears, gets a blacksmith to fashion a fine sword for a girl who appears out of nowhere?" Raven grins. "A liking."

 

Clarke furrows her brow, feeling rather perplexed at the concept of it all, and decides to shrug it off.

 

After a few more steps, Raven speaks again. “Can I come with you on your walk? I’m done all my errands and I'm dying to get out there.”

 

“I –“ Clarke shakes her head. “No. Sorry.”

 

Raven furrows her brow. “Oh.”

 

“I just – want to be alone for a while. I’m sorry.” Clarke stops, facing Raven, genuine apology in her voice.

 

“That’s okay.” Raven says, shrugging. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

 

“That’s not –“

 

“I know, Clarke,” Raven says, pushing Clarke playfully. “Be safe. Wouldn’t want the newest member of the clan being killed by Pauna.”

 

Clarke smiles at Raven. “Of course. See you later.”

 

Raven nods, limping back into the village. Clarke squares her shoulders, taking the sight in – elders beginning to enter their tent to settle in for the night, mothers taking children in, shop owners closing up their carts – and begins the long walk to the border.

 

-

 

It was probably a little too soon for Clarke to be walking as much as she had after her recent injuries, she thinks as her feet begin to ache unbearably again. She sits on a rock near the place where her and Roan parted ways, and eventually sees his large figure emerge from the shadows.

 

“Clarke,” he says. “Good to see you’re actually alive. I was beginning to think I should fashion a pyre for your death.”

 

“Good to see your unwavering faith in me, as always.” Clarke hobbles up, stretching out her left hand. Roan grasps her forearm with his right hand for a moment.

 

“You look a lot better than when I last left you. Healthier.”

 

“They have good healers.”

 

“So, they bought the story?”

 

Clarke nods. Roan gestures to the sword at Clarke’s side.

 

“Who gave you the sword?”

 

Clarke suddenly feels uncomfortably warm. “Their leader.”

 

“Lexa? Really?”

 

Clarke nods again. Roan squints for a moment.

 

“What’s it like?”

 

“What do you mean?” Clarke asks.

 

“In their village. What’s it like?”

 

“It’s – pleasant,” Clarke says truthfully. “If I’m to be honest, a little more civilized than our home.”

 

“Careful. Nia may be far away, but if she catches wind of you saying that, she could get a spear thrown into your chest from where she is.”

 

Clarke grins.

 

“To business, I guess,” Roan says, sitting on one of the rocks. Clarke settles down across from him. “How is their defense?”

 

Clarke hesitates for a moment. Roan raises his eyebrows.

 

“What is that look?”

 

“What look?”

 

“That reluctant look.

 

Clarke shifts. “It’s nighttime. You can’t even see my face.”

 

“I can. Clarke, I know that they may have treated you well, but –“

 

Clarke interrupts him, knowing _exactly_ where he is going, and not wanting to hear another word of it. “They have the most trainees at the post when it first gets dark. Patrols end a few yards from their walls. Archers in towers. Nothing unreasonable.”

 

Roan nods slowly. “Can we overtake them?”

 

The answer is yes, but Clarke finds herself shaking her head. “I – I don’t think so. Let me keep scoping the area out.”

 

“You’ve been there for two weeks,” Roan says. “Nia won’t be happy.”

 

“I’ve been spending most of the time healing, no thanks to your mother,” Clarke says belligerently, holding her bound wrist up to Roan’s face. Roan glares at the arm for a moment, and decides to submit.

 

“Beitris wanted me to give this to you.” He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small marble horse. “Don’t forget where you come from, Clarke.”

 

She takes the marble horse in her hand and runs a thumb over it, nodding.

 

“I won’t.”


End file.
